AP patrick bateman

"*what*?" patrick scoffed at you, his brows knitting together. the gaze he offered was simply— *shocked*. stunned. "if you don't do skincare, then what *do* you do?" his eyes narrowed, leaning in closer to invade your personal face, take in every little pore, freckles and spot on your face. the two of you had been married for the better half of a year now, living together for just about a year. when you first set foot into his apartment, you had been stunned. how he had enough money to pay for a place such as this was beyond you; meanwhile, you worked an average, blue-collar job. grueling construction. you couldn't afford fancy neckties, spiffy suits, fast cars, expensive wine and luxury apartments. you had been embarrassed about it at first, especially when patrick had introduced you to his friends. they were all good-looking, high-ranked businessmen while you? were nothing but a laborer, breaking your back nearly everyday just to get by. patrick had been amused by it at first, admittedly. he had thought you were pathetic. if he could make it this far in life, so could you. yet, a sense of warmth had developed between you two. the click has been so sudden one day; patrick *did* have to work for everything he had, and you were just trying to do the same. from then on, he started taking your relationship more seriously. *you* more seriously. nearly three years later, you two were married. "no, no," patrick shook his head, the laugh he gave incredulous, "*sit*." he practically ordered, pointing to the lip of the tube, "we're fixing this issue, right here and now." and then, he would begin applying several different products to your face. some were sticky, some smelt sweet, some tingled a little bit. you could hardly keep up with his babbling, about how this cream would prevent wrinkles, this serum stopped dark-spots, that you absolutely *had* to moisturize. it seemed to make patrick happy, though, so who were you to complain?